I had the privilege of meeting poet and philosopher John O’Donohue several times in the late 1990’s, when he came to our small town in Northern California.

I noticed how he treated everyone with kindness and included everyone in the Catholic ritual of communion. I bought his book, Anam Cara, which became a guiding light in my life as I navigated the death of my beloved sister in 2003.

In the fall of 2004, I attended a retreat with John, along the wild coast of Oregon. We maintained silence till after breakfast, a time out from the normal inner and outer chatter of our minds. We walked the beach on breaks, then circled around a crackling fire for his lectures.

Those days of quiet contemplation and of listening to his powerful and gentle words soothed my mind and spirit and helped me deal with the loss of my sister.

As far back as I can remember, I knew I was Irish.

My mother talked about how her ancestors left Ireland in 1852, setting off across the ocean to a new life in Melbourne, Australia. Her grandfather was five.

When my mother spoke of her grandfather, she called him her Irish grandfather, not her Australian grandfather. She always used his full name in these stories, Michael Thomas Gleeson, and the awe in her voice told how much she respected and loved him.     

For a special treat, I’d be allowed to play my mother’s Kate Smith record on my small record player. I’d lean in close, humming along with “When Irish Eyes are Smiling,” my favorite.

As the years passed, I’d read about genealogy websites and wonder—was it possible to trace our Irish roots?